


Lie to Me

by Mireille



Series: Little Lies [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-01
Updated: 2002-07-01
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8099395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: "Just this one time, tell me what I want to hear."





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before the release of OOTP, so is not canon-compliant. 
> 
> Title inspired by Depeche Mode, not a Buffy episode (I got asked that a lot at the time).

"Did you know?"

Marcus was on his feet almost instantly, book falling to the floor, the words of a curse springing to his lips before he realized just who had apparated into his living room at eleven o'clock at night. "Damn it, Oliver," he said, "do you even realize how close I came to--"

Oliver crossed the room in a few long strides, only stopping when he was close enough to Marcus that his words could be felt as well as heard, sharp and cold against his cheek. "Did. You. Fucking. Know?" he snarled. Now Marcus realized that he was still wearing his Quidditch gear, down to his gloves; now he saw that Oliver's eyes were red and his hands were curled into tight fists.

"Did I know what?" Not that he was unaccustomed to Oliver showing up royally pissed off at him, but usually not without giving him some idea of why. And never with tears in his eyes.

The answer, when it came, didn't make a lot of sense. "Do you remember Cedric Diggory?"

"I think twenty is a bit young for senility to have set in," Marcus said. " Of course I remember him; we only left school a year ago."

"He's dead."

"What happened?" _And why do you think I'd know anything about it? I've said perhaps ten words to Cedric Diggory in my life._

"The Triwizard Tournament. The last task was yesterday," Oliver began.

He'd forgotten Diggory was one of the champions; most of the press coverage had focused on Potter, and Marcus hadn't really been all that interested anyway. "What was it?"

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. It was all a trap."

With an ever-increasing sense of dread, Marcus listened to Oliver's sketchy explanation of what had happened--that Diggory had gotten caught in a trap laid for Potter, that the Dark Lord had arisen and was gathering support... "How the hell do you know any of this?"

"The Weasley twins sent me an owl as soon as they could, sometime last night. Took a while for it to find me in Ireland, but it caught up to me right after the match." Today was Oliver's first start as Keeper; Puddlemere's first-string player had taken a Bludger to the chest and was recovering from a cracked rib.

"The match. How did--"

"We won. Two hundred to nothing." The usual joy in Oliver's voice when he talked about Quidditch was gone, and that, if nothing else, convinced Marcus that this was real. "But that's not why I came here."

Of course it wasn't. A perfect match? He should be out basking in his glory, not here with Marcus. "Why did you, then?"

"Did you know anything about this?" Oliver asked yet again. "That the whole thing was a trap for Harry? That You-Know-Who was planning--"

"I didn't know a damn thing," he said. "Who's going to tell me anything? My niche in the grand scheme of things is right at the bottom. Helping Dad out behind the till is not likely to make me You-Know-Who's right-hand man, no matter who our customers are." And fuck. It was one thing to work in the shop in Knockturn Alley when your stock in trade was mostly curses for spurned lovers; quite another if there was going to be another war, the one he'd been hearing promised since he was a child, the one where the streets ran with blood.

The blood of foolhardy Gryffindor types who didn't have the sense to know when to shut up.

"You can't keep working for your father," Oliver said. "It's going to be too dangerous."

"The hell I can't; I have rent to pay." And he'd never be able to get away. He didn't know much, true, but even the bits of information he had--the few names he knew--were too much for him to be allowed to change sides. No point trying to explain that, though; he'd tried last spring, before they left school, and Oliver had just kept suggesting that he ask Dumbledore for help. As if the headmaster could protect him. _You see how well he protected Potter and Diggory, and Hogwarts is supposedly the safest place in Britain._

And if he did turn traitor, tell the Ministry what little he knew? His life wouldn't be worth a Knut--and neither would the lives of anyone he knew, anyone whose painful death might be assumed, however incorrectly, to punish him.

"Marcus, I'm serious," Oliver said. "If he's back, there'll be another war. You could be arrested, even sent to Azkaban."

_Only if I'm on the losing side._ "What am I supposed to do?"

"Get another job, for one thing."

"Oh, because that should be no problem," he said. "Between my family connections and my school record, I'm going to be snapped up at once, especially if there really is a war." He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to get rid of the knots that only troubled him when Oliver was in this kind of mood. "We've been over this before. I've got no choice."

"You always have a choice."

He snorted. "Except when you don't want me to."

Oliver's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you've never given me much of a choice where you're concerned. You don't even have the sense to go away when you're told you're not wanted." Not that he'd ever said that to Oliver; not that he could. But he'd damned well tried to, and that ought to count for something.

"You want a fucking choice? Fine. Choose sides, Flint. Your Death Eater friends, or--" Marcus almost laughed at the thought of his friends as Death Eaters; Adrian was too busy trying to fuck everything in a skirt to even notice politics, and Warrington would piss himself in terror at the very thought. Marcus was closer to being a Death Eater than they were; he'd sold a few of them some potions, at least.

But he couldn't let Oliver get away with this. "Or you? Do you really want to know who I'd choose?" _Do I?_

For a long while, Oliver just stood there, not quite looking at him. The air felt vaguely oppressive, charged with something that prickled at Marcus's skin like the atmosphere just before a storm. _It's over,_ he thought. _I've finally gone too far._ There wasn't as much relief in the thought as he'd always assumed there would be.

Then the tension eased, and Oliver just looked very young and very tired. He turned away from Marcus, going over to stare out the window into the dark street below.

_And this is where, if we had any business at all being together, I'd be going over to comfort him._

_Fuck it. I need a drink._ There was only vodka, cheap nasty stuff left over from his last party; Adrian's latest girlfriend-of-the-week had brought it, drunk half the bottle herself, and promptly thrown up in the sink. But when he opened the bottle, it smelled sufficiently potent that he thought it would do well for a night like this one. He poured himself a generous portion, then, with a glance at Oliver, poured a second glass.

He joined Oliver at the window, pressing the drink into his hand. "Drink it. You'll feel..." Not better; he was fairly certain neither of them were likely to feel better in the near future. "Actually, I suppose the point is that you won't feel much of anything."

Oliver gulped the vodka, not even seeming to notice the taste, and then turned to face Marcus. He'd been crying again, it seemed; his eyes were swollen and unnaturally bright, but he hadn't made a sound. "Tell me you didn't know."

"I've already told you I didn't."

"Tell me there was no way you could have known."

He shrugged. "There wasn't. I'm a shop clerk, Oliver. I don't know anything."

"Tell me you're not working for *him.* Not even indirectly."

"Oliver--" _Don't make me lie to you. You've never made me lie; don't change the rules now. Especially not now._

"Just tell me, damn it!" Oliver waited for a moment, but when Marcus didn't answer, he went on; his voice was softer now, almost wistful. "Just this one time, tell me what I want to hear."

Apart from Oliver's fundamental delusions about what they meant to each other, neither of them had ever gone in for pretty lies. After four years, though, Marcus thought Oliver might deserve just one. "I'm not."

"Tell me you'll quit working for your father."

"Tomorrow," he promised, a little surprised at how easy it was to lie to Oliver. Maybe he should have been doing this all along; they'd certainly have fought less.

"Tell me--tell me that this is going to work out. Us, I mean."

"Of course it will." Not that they'd never heard that lie before, but Oliver was usually the one to tell it. Marcus could hardly believe they hadn't killed each other before now, hadn't acknowledged how much they didn't belong together. He'd assumed they'd break it off once they left school and hadn't quite gotten over his shock that they hadn't. That they kept returning to each other in defiance of all reason.

Oliver had never been surprised, but then again, Oliver had never been one to let reason stand in the way of what he wanted.

"You should go," Marcus said. "See the twins, or celebrate with your teammates, or visit your parents--I don't care, but you shouldn't be here. Not with me, not tonight." _Not ever. As soon as I work out how to convince you to end this--it'll be safer that way. For both of us._

Oliver gave him a tight smile. "Tell me you want me to leave."

"You should--"

"Not that I should leave. Tell me you want me to."

"I want--" He shook his head. "Ah, hell, Oliver, I'm not that good of a liar."

Oliver's glass fell to the floor, bouncing unharmed on the carpet; a moment later, once Oliver had closed the slight distance between them, Marcus's followed. And then, so did they, shedding clothes and shoes and everything but the anger that sparked between them. Kisses drew blood, touches left bruises; and when Oliver, deep inside Marcus, finally shuddered and came, it was with a hiss of "...stubborn bastard..."

Marcus was no more surprised by the anger than he was that they had wound up tangled together on his living-room floor; this--fighting and fucking, often at the same time--was all they had. All they'd ever had, no matter what Oliver liked to think. And, because some things didn't change no matter how much you wanted them to, it was all they would ever have.

"Care if I stay the night?" Oliver asked. "It's pretty late."

He considered refusing. He could get this over quickly, tell Oliver to leave and not come back. No point in dragging this out, especially as he didn't know how soon things would get dangerous.

But in the end, he shrugged. "Suit yourself."

It'd be easier in the morning, he told himself. And he kept telling himself that, the whole night, while he watched Oliver sleep.


End file.
